Another Christmas has been unwrapped, but before the night ends, I thought I’d share one of my favorite family stories.

I first published this in 2014, and it still makes me smile.
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Each year as I pull out the ornaments for our Christmas tree, I smile when I come upon a yellowed receipt from the old Hechinger hardware store.
 The fading numbers tell a story that has become a Kress family legend, a tale of persistence, wisdom and one amazing deal.
 It was Dec. 21, 1998, and the sun had long since set. (I know this because the receipt reads: 12/21/1998 19:35:53.)
 As happens to many parents of young children, we still weren’t quite ready for all things Christmas that year.
 So it came to pass, with just a few nights to go, we piled the kids in the car and took off in search of a Christmas tree.
 Our first stop was a traditional one: a local firehouse that sold trees as a fundraiser. Sadly, we found their doors shut; no tree to be had.
 Next we tried a local high school that had sold trees in the past. Again, no luck.
 On we drove to a nearby produce store, known for bounteous supplies of all things green. Alas, they, too, were closed.
 Feeling a bit desperate, we assured our son, 11, and daughter, 8, that indeed, a tree would be found.
 I can’t remember who thought of Hechinger’s, but that’s where we headed next. During the drive over we heard these wise words from our son in the back seat:
 “Maybe next year we shouldn’t wait so long to get the tree.”
 Ah, yes. That does sound like a plan.
 The good news was that Hechinger’s doors were open, and they did have Christmas trees for sale. We found a small pine that spoke to us (“Take me home!”), and I heaved a sigh of relief.
 While my family headed to the car with our tree, I went in to pay. The sign above the tree said $3 plus some cents. I figured it was the price per foot, and did the math: 5-foot tree, $3 plus … roughly $20. Not bad at all.
 The cashier rang up the sale and said:
 “That’ll be $2.65.”
 “What?” I said, a bit confused. “Are you sure?”
 “Yes. They’re on sale.”
 Amazing.
 That little Scotch pine (again, the receipt fills in the details) served us well, and we happily decked it together in time for Christmas.
 Days later, I noticed an odd green/blue tinge on some of the branches. On closer inspection I could see that it was paint. As in spray paint. Apparently our evergreen needed a little help to live up to its name. (And who among us doesn’t, now and then?)
 So there you have our most excellent Christmas tree adventure. Such is the stuff of family legend, a story told and retold fondly.
And worth so much more than $2.65.

 

Let there be lights.

Winter reintroduced itself to us yesterday in classic fashion:
“Remember me? Snow, ice, temperatures in the 20s? It’s been awhile.”

The good news is that the shortest day of the year is behind us, and we get to keep the sunlight a little bit longer. The sun set at 4:38 p.m. yesterday. Today it held on until 4:39!
I’ll take all the light I can get, especially since November.

Now here’s a thought:                

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

There’s light in those words, spoken in the 1960s by Martin Luther King Jr. and inspired by a sermon given in the 1850s by Theodore Parker, an abolitionist minister. Both men were inspired by earlier writers, and by testaments new, old and even more ancient.

So, yes, the arc of the moral universe has been bending for a very long time.

Almost two months have passed since the election here, and I’m grappling with the feeling that the arc may slam into a stone wall. I will leave political analysis, autopsies and strategies for other writers. That's not why I'm here.

When I started this blog, I wrote in my profile that I "look for momentary joys." I’ve rethought — and reworded — that sentence today, because I realize it’s not quite true. I don't look for momentary joys — they’re already all around me. I just have to notice them.  

That’s why I’m here.

To that end, I’ll share a few I noticed recently from behind the wheel:

• Driving west on my way home from work, about an hour after sunset … Trees stand like sentinels in the lingering light, bare branches reaching up against a sky of dusky blue.

•  Cresting a hill in twilight … I slow, then stop my car for a gathering of suburban deer. A doe stands solidly in the middle of the road, looking calmly, and directly, toward the headlights. Three or four young ones mill around her, then trot up a hilly yard to the left, heading to the nearby woods. Spotting four more cautious types in the trees to my right, I creep slowly down the hill to let them cross in peace, and rejoin the party.

• Mid-morning, pulling out on a small side street … I spot a squirrel — and a flash of red — bounding across the road just ahead. I squint. What is that hanging from its mouth?

          'Tis a festive coffee cup, complete with white lid.

           I guess even a squirrel can use a coffee break — especially when you're hauling around something almost as tall as you are long. Impressive.     

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As we wrap up 2024 and head into the great unknown of 2025, may we all find light, hope and joy  — and not lose sight of that arc.

We had a visitor.

Fall arrived at 8:43 this morning.

I missed marking the exact moment, but nature has been leaving regular reminders that summer is ready to go.

One sure sign of fall at our house? The barrage of black walnuts dropping onto our driveway from neighboring trees. A feast for the squirrels, a mess to clean up, and a menace to windshields. (We learned the hard way to park closer to the front sidewalk during bombardment time.)

They say squirrels, indeed, squirrel their nuts away. The ones we live with often opt to hide them in plain sight — on our back steps, in a bird feeder, on a hose holder.

On Monday, I carried my lunch to the front porch and found a walnut resting in my camping chair. As I sat quietly reading, I saw furry movement out of the corner of my eye: A squirrel slipped by just inches from my feet.  

A few minutes later, the squirrel (yes, I think it was the same one) reappeared at the other end of the porch, a bright green walnut stretching her mouth to the max. This time I must have spooked her, because she froze, turned, and leaped from the porch.

When I finished lunch, I put the walnut back on the chair. Later I came out to bring in the mail, and the nut was gone. I guess she thought of a better spot.

By the way, I used “she” for a reason. I went down a rabbit hole (ha!) of squirrel Googling, and found that squirrels mate in the winter, which means the female will be eating for two (or three, or four, or more). Once the babies are born, she has to bulk up her diet to produce the milk they need to grow. That’s a lot of nuts to hide!

Turns out that squirrel mates don’t nest together, so there’s no help from the dad. Or should I say … dads.

Just Google it.

 

It pays to look down.

 My husband and I recently visited Chanticleer Gardens in Wayne, home to 35 acres of glorious public gardens.

While I loved wandering through swaths of lavender, foxglove, hydrangea, hosta — you name it — I still smile when I remember a tiny, lone “volunteer” petunia sprouting from a small gap at the base of a wall near the entrance.

I have a soft spot for plants that manage to make their way even in difficult circumstances.

Oh, nature loves a metaphor. Hope can grow in the most unexpected places.

—

Chanticleer is more than worth the $15 admission fee for adults, but we visited for free, thanks to a museum pass we borrowed from our public library. Libraries offer so much more than books. Visit yours today!
(Full disclosure: I’m lucky to work in one.)

Perhaps science fiction writers were the first to warn us about artificial intelligence and the rise of robot overlords.

Last year, hundreds of AI experts joined in, putting out this dire warning in a single-sentence letter to the world:

“Mitigating the risk of extinction from AI should be a global priority alongside other societal-scale risks such as pandemics and nuclear war.” 

Succinct. And disturbing.

The extinction mentioned in that letter? I sometimes wonder if AI plans to get rid of us one human at a time.

Take our GPS. 

I have my favorite route to the shore, but I keep the GPS running in case of traffic jams or detours.

For years, the GPS has told me to make an awkward left turn down a narrow side street not far from the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. I always ignore the advice.

In May, I decided to give the GPS route a try. Maybe it knows something I don’t know?

Nope.

The artificially “intelligent” route eventually brought me to a T-intersection with Levick Street, one of the busiest roads in the neighborhood — with no traffic light.

“Turn left,” the robotic voice said.

“No way,” I replied.

AI tried again a few months later, on a trip home from Manayunk. We reached a T-intersection at four-lane Henry Avenue — again with no traffic light.

“Turn left,” the GPS said.

That’s a hard no, we decided.

If a left turn won’t get us, how about poison? AI has generated wrong — and dangerous — answers to such questions as: What kind of wild mushrooms are safe to eat? 

And last week, I flinched when Marty, that roving grocery store sentinel, took a quick, sharp turn toward me by the snack aisle. I laughed … sort of.

OK, so where’s the Momentary Joy in all of this?

I’ve seen a sign that maybe, just maybe, our potential overlords have a sense of humor.

I played a game of Scrabble against the computer a while back. It was my turn, and my letter choices less than inspiring. The best word I could come up with?

Dude

The computer’s instant reply?

Bro

Cowabunga! AI can be our friend! 

Or maybe it’s just lulling us into submission.

Stay tuned.

My favorite bloom of spring

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s porch season again.

I grew up spending many an hour on our front porch, reading mysteries and Archie comics on the long comfy glider; playing Michigan Rummy (or whatever became the game of summer each year); listening to a Phillies game in the quiet dark.

My brothers and sister and I made up porch games. One of my favorites? Counting cars. We’d settle on the winning number, say 10. Each player picked a color — white and black the most coveted — then counted cars of that color as they passed. If your color reached 10 first, you won! (Life is good when you’re easily amused.)

One summer in the ‘60s, our porch gave us a front-row seat when the township repaved the street. Trucks and noise and steam rollers and the smell of fresh asphalt! So cool for us kids, not so much for the grownups.

One memorable day we watched rain pour down across the street, while our side stayed dry. You figure there’s got to be a line somewhere …

When my husband I were looking to buy a house, a front porch topped my wish list — and my wish came true.

I sat on that porch Wednesday afternoon, feet up on a camping chair, working on my laptop. A breeze swept by, and brought with it the sweet scent of lilac.

I planted the lilac by our porch some 30 years ago, using shoots I dug up from the back yard of my childhood home. Our family no longer owns the house, but as far as I know that “mother tree” still stands. I hope so. It was already growing when our mom and dad moved there in the early 1950s, which would make it at least 75 years old.

Come spring, Dad would bring lilacs in for Mom, and she’d put them in a vase in the kitchen. When my lilac blooms each year, I think of them together in that kitchen, that house. The way they were together for more than 65 years. (They met in grade school, and Dad was smitten even back then.)

My path occasionally takes me by the old place. I noticed that the new owner has set out porch furniture. I hope he enjoys it as much as we did — and the lilac, too.

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I had fun reminiscing with my siblings as I wrote this. My sister reminded me of another --infamous -- family flower story.

A small patch of peonies grew by the back steps, and she decided to take some in for her second-grade teacher.

 

A neighbor offered her a ride to school that day, and she hopped into the back seat with her bouquet.

My sister loves peonies, but you know what else loves peonies? Ants.
Within a minute, the back seat of our neighbor’s car was full of them. (No good deed goes unpunished.)

My sister still gave the peonies to her teacher. And probably a few ants, too.

 

Snow drops, an annual early bloomer.

I give thanks for the promise of spring.

This winter has been a season of too many goodbyes.
We learned the sad news by phone, by email, by a chance conversation at the diner.
We gathered in churches, in a living room filled with friends, on a shady hillside lined with tall, snow-laden trees.

Each loss brought a heaviness of heart, and a reminder of mortality (which feels a bit more urgent at the age of 66). As I write this, I can picture their faces, remember their presence, and my heart lifts. For those closest, though, the weight won’t shift easily.

Most of us have lived through a winter of loss. Each time, somehow, the great world continues to spin, offering the promise of spring. I’ve paid particular attention to the signs this year.

Those dependable snowdrops arrived in January.
One February morning, I raised a shade in our kitchen and spotted a robin framed by the window.
Early in March,  I walked with my coat unzipped. The breeze cooled, but did not bite.
A week or so later — and seemingly overnight — the brown buds on our maple had turned deep red.
I watched the treetops transform, a busy network of new twigs and buds filling the gaps between the once stark branches.
This week I sat on our porch for the first time since the fall. The buzzy cheep of a blue jay sounded nearby, and I spotted him perched in our lilac just a few feet away.
And today, walking through the woods, we heard wave after wave of the tiny peeper’s chorus.

Of course, last Sunday gave us wind, snow, and a burst of tiny hail. A reminder that sometimes we take two steps forward and one step back.

“For every thing there is a season.”
Some say King Solomon wrote those words back in a year we mark with only three digits. Others may only know them from the 1960s, thanks to Pete Seeger, and the Byrds.

“A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

Wise words to turn to, no matter what the season.

—
For those who like to mark the moment: Spring arrives on Tuesday, at 11:06 p.m.